These are just words written on paper

which was once a living tree

thus words bringing it to life once more

and if we are to ****

and in doing so not obtain the resources of this earth

by creating images that dance

on the tips of our minds

the death is in vain

it is only through words that this leaf

this tree

which once bore fruit

now baring knowledge

is eternal

The tiled floor is cold pressing into my feet.

The only warmth comes from the steam of my tea resting on the nightstand.

I’d like to know how I survived the winter months without you

where my only friend was a good book and maybe a casual cigarette.

By candlelight, the tea and honey is finding it’s way all the way down,

coating my throat for temporary relief.

What I wouldn’t give for a kiss right now.

You could stir my tea.

I’d lick the sugar clean from your finger,

and it would somehow taste sweeter.

To die and sleep within a world of dreams,
is but to live in my reality.
There are few who endure
the true nature of things,
without methods of escape.
We call those people realists.
I call those people sad.
To envision the world through their eyes,
is a menacing chaos.
Without divine order or inspiration.
Set yourself aflame
and rise from the ashes of the material world.
Live as though dreams can be touched,
and music can be tasted,
smells can be heard,
and love can be seen.

I've become
what I promised myself I wouldn't
a zombie
writing these words
onto this sheet of paper
I had to reference the 110 bus for the date
November 5, 2010
floated across an electronic screen
it's grown colder
colder than before
The leaves
no longer on the trees
have adorn the ground
in various shades of yellows and oranges
but mostly brown
The dampness of the air
only makes things appear
more *****
It almost makes me long for snow
at least then things will appear clean
only I will know that underneath it's surface
lays the dirt trash and clutter
making my streets a swamp
residual poverty
The Mystic River almost looks appealing today
I wish I could bathe in the decadence
of it's slime and dirt
and blown tires and shopping carts
an urban soup
The station is full of it's usual assembly line
of rude people
who's lives are far more important than yours
"No thank you", man who gives away the paper
There's no good news today
The rain is falling in a pattern on the train window
all around the head of a  man
directly across from me
almost in the shape of a halo
maybe he is God
or at least and Angel
"Stand behind the yellow line
doors are closing"

Bits of tar rolling down my throat
and into my lungs
used to make me feel alive
His lips tasted of metal
and his of cinnamon
and hers of freshly picked strawberries
I would bring food to my mouth
and ingest
hoping one day to feel full
To bite into something
that would not leave me
wanting for something
Drops of burning liquid
would numb my wet lips
and then my heart
the tartness of meals
led to an aftertaste of
bitterness
until I brought my lips to yours

I want so much to remember.
All I can recall,
is her face,
which felt like paper.
So thin,
crisp, and white.
Like a sheet of snow,
over hills and peaks.
A raisin.
Drained of its juices,
but still sweet as ever.

I suppose all I can really say

is that I love you, in this simple way.

The way that children cherish treasures

and secret places.

“All the things I’m feeling

don’t seem to come out right.”

were the words you said to me.

You held me under a pale sky,

that got brighter with every word.

All of those jumbled feelings twisted up

into fragments from your lips.

They were the sweetest my ears have ever heard,

and I held onto them,

like blades of grass on the edge of a cliff.

I was bruised,

and so were you.

But like a healer,

you touched my face,

and replaced my frown with a smile.

It wasn’t too late for me,

and it wasn’t too late for you.